


Routines

by michii1213 (BuckytheDucky)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Cutesy, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:10:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5195123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuckytheDucky/pseuds/michii1213
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, it's fun to shake up a routine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routines

With a sigh, Dean stepped off the train and pushed his way through the people waiting to board. It was already gearing up to be a long day. His alarm had caused him to wake up twenty minutes late; he was just grateful he always set the alarm for an hour earlier than he actually needed to be awake. Then the percolator had somehow managed to kill itself, so he was going without coffee until lunch (but if he drank his coffee then, he’d be up late that night, which would just keep the cycle going, so really, he was going without the liquid caffeine today). Then he’d stepped into a deep mud puddle which had caused him to walk the five minutes back home to change into the pants he’d worn two days prior because he’d been too tired to do the laundry like he’d planned to do. He rubbed a hand over his tired face and started the trek to the office.

Normally, he kept his eyes straight ahead, not seeing the little details, but today, something caught his attention: A dark-haired person (he was hazarding a guess at the person being male, if the sharp, defined shoulders anything to go by) was walking about twenty feet in front of him. The umbrella the man carried obscured any facial details from Dean’s sight, but he couldn’t stop his green eyes from focusing on the way the man’s slacks clung to his (rather perfect) derriere in just the right way. Dean smiled to himself at the thoughts. The walking signal changed to a large, red STOP, just as the man made it to the other side. Dean waited with a group of other office-dwellers until traffic stopped and they could cross. The man was out of sight by the time Dean crossed the street.

He sighed and finished the walk to the tall building in which he’d worked for four years. It was a boring, monotonous job, that he really didn’t like, but it paid the bills and allowed for a somewhat extravagant lifestyle – if that’s what he chose. Instead, he preferred to spend his evenings with a whiskey on ice, a book or the occasional movie, and the (very rare) company of the female sort, just to take care of the needs that he, as a man, had. Sometimes, he’d even go out for a film at the theatre or on dinner dates with the women his friends set him up with. Nobody ever listened when he said he wasn’t interested in dating anyone, and if it ever came to the point where he _was_ , he was certain he could find his own dates; they usually laughed it off and said “You just haven’t met the right woman yet!” He’d stopped protesting long ago.

Lunch time came and went. Someone had eaten the homemade burger and salad he’d brought, even though he’d put his name clearly on the bag. So when he finally left the building, he felt like his stomach was eating itself. The train ride home was unentertaining, like usual. He made himself a quick dinner, cleaned up the mess, and sat in his armchair with the copy of _The Feast of Love_ that his “sister from another Mister”, as Charlie so eloquently described herself, had gotten him for Christmas the previous year. It wasn’t a bad book – different than what he normally would’ve chosen for himself, but pretty good nonetheless. Once the grandfather clock across the room chimed eight times, he closed the book and finished the last swig of his whiskey before rising to his feet. He turned the lamp off, making his way to his bedroom. He didn’t bother flipping the light switch as soon as he stepped inside; he merely stripped to his boxers, walked through the dark to his four-post bed, and slid between the sheets. His last thought before falling asleep was that he was definitely not looking forward to repeating the same damn routine the following day.

 

He almost didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary the next morning after stepping off the train. The morning had gone a lot smoother than the day prior, except for the massive influx of emails he’d received from his boss which were demanding his attention as he walked the twenty minutes to the office. He glanced up when he nearly ran into a lamp post. That’s when he saw _him_ – the same man from yesterday, again twenty feet ahead of him. Dean slid the phone into his suit jacket pocket and watched with open fascination at the way the man’s hips swayed just a little, the slacks – beige, today – hugging his rear. Once again, the man made it across the street while the light stopped Dean. He chuckled to himself when the man glanced over his shoulder, winking.

Over the next few weeks, Dean started looking forward to this new routine. He even began spending a bit more time on his hair in the morning. Neither man said anything to one another, but Dean would always get a wink or smile once the other was across the street. Every night before bed, he thought about the stranger, wondered about his life and who he was as a person. He knew his theories were more than likely wrong (honestly, if the man turns out to be some sort of CIA agent, Dean was sure he’d die from shock), it was fun to imagine the man in other contexts than the fifteen minutes they shared in the mornings as Dean went to work and he went... Well, wherever he was meant to go.

One morning, two months after the routine was started, Dean searched frantically as he walked along the sidewalk, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He almost started freaking out – until he realised he had no reason to be; he didn’t know the man. He didn’t even know if the man thought about their mornings as much as he did. He forced himself to calm down as he made his way further down the sidewalk. Suddenly, feet pounding against the concrete caught his attention, and he had no chance to turn around to see what the commotion was. He couldn’t stop the bubble of laughter at the sight of the man running toward him, past him, brushing against him in his hurry; Dean raised an eyebrow as the man turned and started running backwards, a wide grin on his face. His voice was deeper than Dean expected - rich, gravelly.

“I have been winning for two months now, and I just can’t stop now! Have a good day. See you tomorrow!”

The man turned back around and slowed to a steady walk. He dodged across the street as the red STOP signal appeared. Dean stopped at the corner, much like every day, but with a lighter heart. The man had been thinking about their routine just as much as he did. He slipped his hands in his pockets while he waited; something scraped against his flesh. He pulled it out and saw it was a piece of paper. Written on  it was a name and number.

Dean laughed and tucked the paper deeper into his pocket, so he wouldn’t lose it. This was one routine he wouldn’t mind doing for quite some time.


End file.
